


Fiendball

by SinisterSandman, Sivvus



Category: FFX, Final Fantasy, Final Fantasy X
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fight Club Fusion, Alternate Universe - Sports, Blitzball, F/M, Gambling, Games, Minor Character Death, Sports, Underground Dueling, grudgematch
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-17
Updated: 2014-10-25
Packaged: 2018-02-13 13:23:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 2,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2152347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SinisterSandman/pseuds/SinisterSandman, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sivvus/pseuds/Sivvus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before the stranger crawled out of the sea, long before the Aurochs learned how to fly, Besaid had a far more deadly secret. The players came from across the land to dance with death, and once they played they were never allowed to leave. Fiendball: A dark sport played in the fiend-cursed ocean and lit by the pyreflies of the dead. W/L, Rated T</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my wonderful brother for all the advice and ideas with this fic!
> 
> And who is now working the project with player perspectives.

Long before the stranger crawled out of the sea others had drifted there, lying face-down in the swirling tide. Their hands and faces were waxy, not with the cold but with the dull bloodless pallor of death. The ocean might have swallowed them whole, taking their grey remains into the blue depths, but for some reason they always seemed to drift to shore.

 _Sin,_ Wakka thought, _has a sick sense of humour sometimes._

Or perhaps, out of all the innocents the fiends tore from the shores, Sin thought Blitzball players were the ones who were worth protecting. They never drifted unseen for long, and when they washed ashore their sendings were silent and short. Everyone knew how they had died. Why mourn them? So perhaps Sin gave them back as another lesson, another grim warning to the people of Besaid. Like the ruins of the wicked buildings of the past, their bodies were returned broken and decaying long after life had left them.

When the maesters asked how they had died, the people said that the sea-fiends had gotten them. It wasn't quite true.

Only the Fiendballers knew the truth.

If you catch a blitzball wrong you can hurt your hands. The grooves and bulges that make them easy to catch underwater can trap a fingertip if you're not careful.

If you catch a fiendball wrong, you can slit your own wrist.

There were stories of players losing fingers and thumbs, but in the underground leagues most catchers were too skilled to do that. Still, each game saw the players with new lacerations as the bladed balls ripped skin from their hands and tore jagged wounds into their arms.

After a few minutes the swirling copper in the salt water attracted the fiends. It always did. Skeletal fish and twisted, un-sent creatures swam closer, their baleful nicotine-yellow eyes rolling in hunger at the stench of blood, their mutant nostrils flaring in the merciless abattoir of the sea. A single vein, a single cut, and after a few more heartbeats you weren't just competing for points, you were desperately fighting for your life.

Fiendball. Under the thud of heavy music and the hoarse roar of the bloodthirsty crowd you could always hear the screams.


	2. The Keeper's Role

"So here I am, drifting between the posts. I glance at my fellow players, making sure to hold concentration in case somebody takes a shot. We're none of us friends, not really. Friends are a liability in a sport wherein the participants just don't last. Not long anyway.

"There are some high-class players, sure. Some who have been around for weeks, even months. The keepers have the most dangerous roles. Most of them only last a day or two. Something to do with actively aiming to put themselves between the ball and the net. The ball in this case being a metal-encased bludgeoning ball, which would sooner crush you than be caught.

"Of course, not everyone agrees. The shotsmen up front seem to think that deliberately loosing the ball and striking it with a barely-covered foot is far more of a risk. Openly injuring yourself for the sake of a goal. But the ball can be thrown too, so why would they even attempt to do that? Brings a whole new meaning to the term 'guts for glory', I suppose. Not that feet have guts. It's the keepers who take the ball to the stomach more than anyone.

"And then the fiends swarm in. And players start to drop like flies, as plausible as that can sound when you play a game underwater. What can be done then? Any player can move out of the way, after all. Everyone has that ability. Unless, of course, you happen to be the one thing standing between the ball and the net. That's the one who cannot, not for an instant, abandon his - or her - post.

"And then those - for lack of a better word, bloody - abilities. Invisible shots, fired from the back of the playing field. Can't see them, but for a murmur of movement between the tides. If the ball is bladed, then you suddenly can't catch it for fear of getting something you can't even see make a delimbed corpse of you. That's hard enough to account for even if you can see it.

"Speaking of which, how did I not - I mean, really, where did that come from? It's not invisible, even, and it's right at the level of my eyes?

"I guess maybe I should have paid more attent-"


	3. The Midfielder's Part

"So, anyway, I'd already decided we were going to win, right? I got that thought into my head from the start. Yes, that's right. Right into my head. His head. Oh, that's - no, no - no, I'm okay. Leave off!

"Besides which, I was taking - you know - 'substances'. To make myself invulnerable, make it easy. There was nothing to worry about because, man, I was so pumped! That's why I have such a great kick, such a great power, such massive - anyway, going off-track again, aren't I? Oh, yes. You wanted to know what's it's like out there, in the middle of it all? Someone falls, you're right beside them. Usually. A fiend comes in, you just have to shove someone into it's path and get away as fast as you can, right? I've lost track of how many people I've killed that way. It's easy to do in the midway. Centre-field. You can do whatever you like, we tend to survive more often than - say, the goalkeepers.

"Oh, but - I didn't expect - most of the time you can control things, like - if I push someone into a fiend, then I knew I was going to do it, right? Planned it. Guilty! I can see everything from the midway, you know? He was - further away. Like, I kicked the ball - I know, it was encased in metal, broke my foot doing it, almost in half, stupid call - ahahaha! No! No! No! But it - it wasn't even a goal! The ball just cannoned into his - his face - blew apart - red dust in the water, you know?! Ahaha! I didn't - no! I can continue!

"I just never expected it to happen! He just drifted there, the fiends - the fiends, they - swam in and knocked the ball away from the net, it was - it wasn't even a goal! So fast! It - it wasn't even a goal! I didn't mean to - you can't blame me for - ahaha! I'm the best player! But I didn't even score once that day! Why would that - how could you - I'm not to blame, it's not that kind of - it's not even really - how is this even a game?!

"Ahaha, you can - you can put me back in my cell now, please officer. Pass me my crutches? And maybe - you know - I could have something - well, something - sharp - to have - just in my cell with me, you know? Ahahaha! No? No - but I - I need it! Ahahaha!

I need it!"


	4. The Benchwarmer's Stand

"You have time to watch whilst sitting on the bench. Not much time, I guess. They call us 'benchwarmers', but then the bench doesn't have time to get warm, not with the way the game works. A player is felled, a new player joins the fray. It's just the way things work. Nobody in this can claim to be 'safe'. 

"Usually the bench players, they sit for maybe a minute, two minutes - after the first three, that is, because there usually isn't an incident until then - so five minutes in total, 'warming' the bench. Then the water turns reddish-black somewhere or the other, foaming away on the surface. And the nearest benchwarmer has to dive in and take that player's place, provided the board lights up and indicates a fatality.

"But the point I was making - you get to watch. I could see the midfielder's smirk as he dropped the ball. I could see the muscle in his leg firm up. We all knew he was on some kind of muscle-up. How could he not be, a build like that?

"Some people find that attractive, I suppose, but not me. The ones who play dangerous, the ones who look like weeds but throw themselves into the fray without a second thought, they're the ones I like. They're rare, though, they are. First reason being that only twelve percent of the players in this game aren't voluntarily on some kind of kick. Another six percent have it forced into them by obsessive captains. And the remaining four percent that actually fit the bill tend to get maimed within the first few minutes of being in the water.

"And there I go again, off on a tangent. It just didn't make sense to me. I can't focus on it because it just didn't make sense. Still doesn't.

"The freak midfielder just slammed his foot against the ball, there was a mighty cracking sound as he did it. We all heard it, even through the water. He didn't scream though, which is a rare thing in itself. So he smirked first, then winced as his foot stopped moving as a part of his body and just began to float instead. Just his foot. And the ball hit the goalkeep. Standard death, but I don't think anyone expected him to just take it like that. Usually they see it coming if it's the ball that gets them.

"But I was still watching the freak. He looked elated as the ball went so close, even as it went through the goalkeep. It was only when the ball was knocked away from the net that his face turned sour. He was one of those ones, in it for nothing but the game.

"I don't know if it's something he dwells on. I doubt it. Why would a freak like him care about anyone but himself? All I know is, I had to jump in and take position at the goalmouth. The water was coppery, there were fiends around, sure. But those things are so fast, by the time the fatality light turns up, they've all but gone.

"Doesn't mean you won't be mauled before you've had time to get your bearings, mind."


	5. The Defender's Score

"Of course you've been told about the incident! It's one of the greatest achievements of the season! Have you seen the way people are responding? They see someone go like that, they want more product. They want more product, I make more money, more moolah, more gil in general. You understand? People don't want to be jumping into the game as weak bags of flesh, they want muscle on muscle on muscle, baby!

"I take it you've gathered that I deal in substances. I beef up the players in the game, I get paid, I get attention - nobody in Fiendball is a star, get it? Because the government isn't in on it, they hate it, they want it gone. So nobody gets famous, because if you get famous you get infamous. As in, jailtime. Get that into your skulls.

"And then because I deal I have easy access. What good am I as a defender if every other player - all of them hooked on the stuff I give them and piled up beyond recognition - is stronger than I am? So I make sure they aren't. I mean, check me out. Nobody is getting past me. Except maybe the Al-Bhed, and that's because a lot of them won't take my stuff. They're probably the harshest players out there, good job there's so few of them.

"They wear goggles to keep the salt out of their eyes and weave, weave, weave through whatever we've got. They're basically cheaters. I can't stand cheaters. Muscle up all you want, baby, that gets me money and keeps the game fair. But using equipment is just - it's wrong! And then they do other stupid things like train offsite. How is that right? Training, really? It's rough-and-ready or get out in my opinion. Out! Get it? Out!

"The stuff I sell is good, why wouldn't it be? Hypello potions, mixed with a secret ingredient and processed for three weeks. Marlboro tentacle? Never heard of the stuff, stop guessing. In fact, you know what? You just lost your interview.

"Get out! Out!"


	6. The Shotsman's Odds

"'Incident'? I suppose you could call it that, although by anyone's understanding of the game it was a fairly standard thing to happen. Big whoop, goalie down.

"Of course, bets were up on it. That particular goalie had been slipping lately, it was only a matter of time. A bet of forty gil turned out eight hundred for the gambler on-point that day, if that goalie took in saltwater. Choked, you know?

"Took a few of those bets myself before the match. Gambling around the game is pretty much an in-crowd thing though, it being a legality and all. You know what I mean, with the government and all. Crooked officials? Happens, I guess, no more frequently than anything else, mind. I'm not privy to that information personally, it's not really a thing that people tend to bet on.

"When it happened I was at the opposite end of the pitch. Average game. I got hauled out at the end though, my memory is hazy. Blacked out, didn't I?

"You weren't paying attention? I suppose when that kind of focus is put on the wrong bit of the game then you would miss it when my teammate retrieves the ball, passes it to me and shatters my arm doing it. Got the shot off before seeing nothing but the back of my eyelids though. Brought the score up to one-over-nothing, and nobody saw it. Just my luck, everyone clamoring over the death of some sap when everyone should know that the goals are all that count for anything. Goalies are replaceable.

"Made some good gil over the score, too. If I hit the back of the net in that game, I was due to gain six hundred-fifty for my trouble, plus wages on top. Or should I count my wages first? Ha! I guess I really should sort out my priorities.

"Hey, twenty gil says that I can drink this potion in less time than it takes for the fiends to devour a man!"


	7. The Game

Blitzoff!

The ball flies up, fired from an Al-Bhed mechanism that lies encased in sand on the bed of the ocean. The depth has been meticulously measured so that the ball cannot breach the surface, although this doesn't stop the organisers from placing it just that little bit too low. The increased time it takes to surface gives the players just that little bit more time to read each other, to plan a strategy.

To take each other out of the running in the quickest way possible. Such is the way of the game.

Midfielders collide. The ball is heavier than one anticipates and his catch drags him and his opponent down into the darkness. A fiend is waiting, nips in, takes a bite. Blood is in the water. Only a little, but that can sometimes be enough.

A pass is made and somebody tries to intercept. Her hand ends up on a much looser hinge. The ball carries on through the water and slows as it travels, safely caught by the defender. Timing is everything. Too close and the ball is unstoppable. Too many players have lost a limb for the want of an intercept at close range. Another fiend closes in from afar, currently indifferent. Waiting, but not taking any notice beyond the necessary. Glances at one of the cameras and the audience gasp in anticipation. Once the fiends are there, it's not really a game any more and yet they play on. And the audience loves it.

Pass. Pass. Tackle. Tackle. Pass. Shoot!

It sails towards the goal and there is nothing to stop it. The goalkeep is too busy making offensive gestures at the fiends in a desperate effort to keep them at bay. The bookies take note of his lapse. If you don't focus on the fiends, the ball, the players, the game as a whole - players can't survive that way. They just can't. It deflects off the bar and is intercepted without event.

Pass. Tackle. Shoot! Save! Pass. Pass. Pass. Pass. Pass!

The impact of the ball makes a circle in the water, almost makes a sound perceivable by the audience. A pass is potentially the most exciting thing to happen in this game. A pass is when things happen. A pass, in this event, is when a player loses a large chunk of their own flesh. They watch, dumbfounded, probably wondering if their thigh was more shapely than it appears now, floating by their ear. Rigorous training should make for solid thighs, but when it just drifts it looks more like somebody dropped a brownish, reddish lump of distorted modelling clay in the water. At least it does until the fiends snap it up. And the player is then desperately treading water to get away, one leg floating aimlessly and even getting in the way of an arm. Unsuccessfully trying to flee.

And then the player is gone.

Tackle. Pass. Pass. Shoot!

The player has broken his own foot, but he's just watching the trajectory. He doesn't care. The ball sails through a red haze of what used to be the goalkeeper. The fiend is no longer indifferent, it darts in and takes only a split second to start gnawing at the empty neck of the goalkeep. The ball has been knocked away from the goal.

Shoots off the rebound. Score! Tackle. Pass. Shoot! Save!


End file.
